


Illuminate My Heart, My Darling!

by rhanakrios



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Child Abuse, Depression, Dubious Consent, Fluff and Angst, Growing Up, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Underage, M/M, Prostitution, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhanakrios/pseuds/rhanakrios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is turning ten and Dean is desperate to make it special. John is a jerk and Dean deals with depression in his own way until he meets an Angel of the Lord.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Illuminate My Heart, My Darling!

Sam is turning ten in two days and Dad hasn't been home in five days. Of the money he left them, only a scrunched up fiver and some change remains. With no word on when he'll return, Dean weighs his options. He could try to make the money last as long as possible, living on canned foods and noodles until he gets back. He immediately rejects that one; they will not be starving on Sammy's birthday. 

True, the Winchester family hasn't been known to make a celebration out of common holidays. Sam is used to not getting anything besides a smile and a hug, maybe even a little toy Dean had managed to snag from a gas station shelf. But over the years, as he made fleeting friends in schools he never had enough time to fit in, he started asking questions. Not the usual "why don't we have a mommy?" and "why is dad never here?", but other, harder to answer ones: "why don't we have a Santa for Christmas?" or "how come I can't have a birthday cake?". 

"Because you've been a naughty boy, Sammy", Dean jests with a stiff smile, "because if you have cake the tooth fairy will come and steal all your teeth." 

Sometimes he huffs out an irritated laugh in response, and Dean feels his smile soften; other times – more often than not – he just lowers his head and smiles sadly, fighting hard not to show the disappointment that Dean still reads on his face like he is a book he knows by heart. Those times the perfect lines of his mouth break and he turns away to hide the tears that yearn to fall if he would only let them. No matter what, he always stays strong for Sammy. 

And so every year he does his best to put a smile on his little brother's face on his special day. And the older Sam gets the less frequent his questions are. It breaks Dean's heart to see him grow up so fast, knowing he can protect him against the monsters hiding under the bed, waiting in the closet, breathing on the windows, but not against the harsh reality of the world: the foreign, unsteady whiskey eyes of their father, the uncertainty of a next hot meal, the unslayable demons haunting his dreams. 

As best he can he hides his bruises, the ones that could not possibly have come from a hunt, and the quivering in his hands after he has neglected to eat for days so that Sammy wouldn't feel that pang of hunger, staying up at night to watch over his brother until his eyelids droop with the weight of lead. 

"Protect Sammy", Dad tells him. "Look after Sammy." And he does. It's his life mission, his purpose. Every night before he falls into unconsciousness, he makes promises to his long dead mother that he will keep his brother safe, keep him away from the harmful things that life keeps throwing at him. It's his mantra, a prayer of sorts. 

And he always does his best, even if his best is not always enough, even if Dad no longer can look him in the eyes after he's screwed up one too many times. 

But ten is special, Dean knows. His usual best won't do for this, so he has to be creative. Briefly, he ponders trying to contact their father, but the thought of begging him for more money makes him sick to his stomach. No, he needs to find money on his own. 

Dad has taught them pool hustling and pick-pocketing, and Dean isn't too bad at either if he's honest. Sam disapproves, of course, even though Dean has tried telling him they're just taking what they earned. If only the people they ripped off knew who they were – heroes – they would gladly give them their hard earned dollars. And Sam likes the sound of that, even though he's not fully convinced, but he keeps his mouth shut whenever Dean comes home with more bills than he left with. 

The problem with pool hustling is that it's nigh impossible to find a man or woman willing to play against a fourteen year old. Pick-pocketing is high risk, low reward and while Dean is desperate, he knows how many different ways that could go wrong. 

But there is another option. The sickness that grabbed him earlier returns almost instantly, but he knows it will be worth it. This won't be his first time, nor his second, and definitely not his last, and he knows how to go about it. 

After putting Sam to bed early – to his great relief he falls asleep not long after 9:30 – he leaves the motel to head into the small town they're currently visiting. 

He finds his spot outside a shady night club. Deep beats find their way outside, speeding his heart's rhythm up even more. He curls his hands into fists in his thin jacket's pockets, bracing himself against the chilly evening air while leaning back against the rough brick wall in an attempt to look casual.

He is fully aware of his pretty boy looks, and how it attracts even the most upstanding of citizens. It doesn't take long before he catches the eyes of a middle aged man, looking him up and down like he's some freshly waxed sports car. He nods ever so slightly when the man raises an appreciative eyebrow. The man turns and walks towards a silver sedan (a family car) sliding inside and waiting for Dean to do the same. Dean draws his numb fingers over his pocket knife before he follows suite. 

The man drives them off to a more secluded area and fifteen minutes later Dean is dropped off at the club again with a twenty dollar bill twirling between his fingers and relief mixing with the disgust in his face. 

This time wasn't so bad, he lies to himself, still tasting the stranger's bitterness in his mouth, willing himself not to heave it all up. And he almost succeeds, until the image of Sammy finding out appears to him and he sprays bile on the sidewalk. When it is done he leans his forehead against the cool wall and breathes shallow breaths. Distantly, he hears a couple laughing at him from behind, someone putting a hand on his shoulder asking him if he's alright. 

He's just about to leave for the motel when he hears wheels screeching to a halt on the road next to him, a soft purring he knows all too well as a door is slammed open and he is jerked around by strong hands. He feels his father's eyes like fire on his downturned eyes, but doesn't have it in him to face them. His father's breath is hot and laden with alcohol as he yells at him in that quiet way (can't let anyone hear) for answers. When he isn't getting any he shakes Dean's shoulders before slapping him fast and hard across the cheek. 

Dean finally looks up, eyes wide and bright, lower lip trembling, a thin trail of copper mixing with the gall and salt in his mouth. He looks into the eyes of the man who raised him to kill monsters without a moment's doubt and sees understanding dawning on him. 

"What did you do?" he whispers, fury leaving way for disgust. 

"Please Dad", Dean pleads as panic rises in his throat, tears filling his eyes. "Please I needed the money. For Sammy!" he sobs. 

"How dare you make this about Sammy?" his father roars at him, and a bypasser turn's his head in their direction, slightly alarmed. Dean feels the back of his head hit hard against the brick wall, and he relishes the pain. "Don't lie to me. I know you, Dean. Better than you know yourself. It's always about you." He leans close, nose almost touching Dean's, and his whiskey breath is dizzying. His voice turns into a growl, low and dripping with pure disdain. "You did it because you liked." And it lands harder than any punch to the gut ever could. "I didn't raise a faggot son", he whispers, and the hatred in his eyes are burned into Dean's retinas, blinding him until it is all he sees. He throws him to the ground and leaves, hitting the gas so hard the wheels spin as he drives away in a cloud of exhausts and burnt rubber. 

Dean loses track of time as he stays on the ground, weeping and sobbing, unable to find the strength in him to pull himself together and return to Sammy. He knows things will be different from now on. He knows he won't ever be able to look his father in the eyes again. Maybe not even Sammy's. Maybe Dad will tell and Sam will look at him with that same disgust. The thought slices through him like fire and ice and and for a moment or two he can't breathe from the agony. 

Some time later the tears run out, leaving his eyes stinging and head aching, and his broken sobs turn into shallow, uneven breaths. He raises himself on shaky legs, making his way slowly past the now closed bar, through lifeless streets, casting ghostly shadows in the streetlights. 

Just as he is about to open the motel door he swears he hears a whooshing, like that of massive wings. He jumps and turns around quickly, raising his pocket knife. Staring into the darkness for a good five minutes yields nothing, and he decides to leave it. The fact that he has never heard of a winged monster is a small comfort, but there isn't much he can do about an invisible foe he knows nothing about. 

Stepping inside he lets out a sigh of relief at finding Sam fast asleep, perfectly still except for the steady rise and fall of his chest. Dean washes his face and rinses his mouth thoroughly, rubbing soap onto his tongue and the inside of his cheeks, wincing as the small wounds sting. 

He digs through the bag his father left, coming up with a half full bottle of cheap vodka. He chugs down nearly half of it, barely feeling the taste, knowing his Dad won't notice. Even if he did, his reaction couldn't be possibly worse than it had been to what had happened tonight. 

He crawls into bed next to Sam, keeping to his side, and waits for the alcohol to have its effect. Even then it takes hours of staring hard into the ceiling for sleep to overcome him. Sometime just before dawn, before consciousness leaves him, he remembers the wings and he knows he hadn't imagined it. Perhaps it's the drunkenness, perhaps it's the exhaustion, but somehow the thought calms him. 

 

***

 

Dean buys Sam a small, red replica of a 1970 Impala and a slice of cake with his earnings. Sam has stars in his eyes as he inspects his gifts, and Dean can't remember ever seeing him so excited. 

As Sammy stuffs his face full of white cake Dean decides that it has been worth it, and he knows that he will do everything can in the future to bring back that big, goofy smile his baby brother is wearing. He can take his father's disdain, his rage, his punches, so long as Sammy is happy. 

That night he goes to bed smiling, making new promises to his mother.

I will keep him happy. I will make his life worth living. 

No matter the cost.

 

***

 

Their father returns three days after Sam's tenth birthday, having been away for ten days total. He refuses to look Dean in the eye as he gathers their stuff so they can move onto another motel, another town, another case. He doesn't say a word about what happened to Sam, and Dean is so relieved he could cry. 

And while he still yearns for his father's love like nothing else, and he wishes he could remove the stain he has put on his family, marking him forever as the black sheep, Dean struggles along, making his life count for Sam. Always for Sam. And if the pain of it all is too much to bear, and he carves into his own flesh, on his thighs, where the scars are easily hidden, or drinks himself to sleep on his father's liquors, then no one has to know. 

 

***

 

Dean is careful, always so careful not to let anyone find out about the things he does behind closed doors. He sells his body only when he knows for a fact his father is nowhere around, he carves only when Sam is in deep sleep, he starts buying his own alcohol from bearded men with beer bellies with his services. 

He takes pride in how well he succeeds. Sam has stopped asking how Dean can afford all the gifts he is given and if he slips up with his razor and cuts too deep it's easy enough to blame it on an old monster wound when it bleeds through his pants. And while his father never forgives him, he takes him with for hunts, lets him read through his journal (not a word on winged creatures) and apparently still trusts him enough to looks after Sam when he can manage whatever their hunting on his own. Either he doesn't notice Sam's ever growing collection of brand new toys or he doesn't want to know where they came from, because he never comments on it. Dean thinks it's a little of both. 

 

***

 

Years pass, Sammy enters a growth spurt and becomes huge. Dean stops buying him toys and brings him handsome clothes, magazines (of the dirty kind until Sam flames him for it), shaving utensils and whatever else he can think of that his giant of a brother might want. 

Sam and Dad argues over Stanford. Sam wants to become a lawyer, Dad refuses to allow him to become anything but a hunter. Finally Sam has had enough and he leaves. Dean agrees to drive him to California. 

The journey there is spent in complete silence, one that Dean is afraid to break because it might push him over the edge, send him into a fit of rage – or worse, tears. 

Not until they're there and Sam has opened the car to leave Dean speaks. 

"You –" he clears his throat with a cough – "you take care Sammy", he says and tries to smile even as he feels tears burning in the corner of his eyes. 

"Yeah... you too Dean. You look after yourself from now on, 'kay?" Sam says and smiles kindly. Dean doesn't trust his voice enough to speak so he just nods. "Hey, and uh, Dean", Sam looks him straight in the eyes with a look of genuine warmth, and beneath the sorrow ripping through him like blades, Dean feels a wave of gratitude that Sam turned out so right, so good, "thank you. For everything." Dean forces another smile. 

"See ya Sammy", he says in a tone so much lighter than the weight crushing against his heart. Sam pats him on the shoulder and leaves the car, never looking back. 

Dean stays where he is long after Sam has entered the building, unable to stop the silent tears rolling down his cheeks.

Suddenly, a warmth spreads through his shoulder, the same one Sam had touched, and Dean jumps, high on alert. But there's nothing in the car – not visible, at least. And just as quickly as the heat appeared it is gone, leaving nothing but the faint smell of ozone and – so muted he would've been certain it was nothing unless he had heard it before – a flutter of wings. 

Dean stops at a restroom on his way back, locking the door behind him and cutting deep into the ruined skin on his right thigh. A part of him – a weak whisper very nearly drowned by the buzz of self-denial and broken self-worth – wishes that this time the cut would be deep enough; this time would be the last. 

But the flow of red stops, just as it always does, just as though he is cursed to continue living this shadow of a life. 

He washes his face with cold water and begins the drive back to his in all likelihood drunken and raging father. He expects to have a couple of new bruises by the end of the day. Somehow that thought doesn't bother him at all. 

 

***

 

Time passes, things change. Sam's dream of becoming a lawyer is long gone, Dad dies, Dean sells his soul for his brother, he spends a lifetime in Hell only to be pulled out by an Angel of the Lord. He is the Righteous Man, Sam is the Boy with the Demon Blood. They save the world and lose everything. The nightly promises to his mother are replaced with desperate prayers to an absent angel. Dean tries to forget the time before Hell, the things he did to himself and for the pleasure of others, the mark his father left on him, a constant reminder of who he was supposed to be (I didn't raise a faggot son!). After all, what is the weight of that shame compared to the nightmares he has suffered since?

He learns to move past his father's legacy, to start to want things for himself. He falls for an Angel, who in turn falls for him, in every sense of the word. He peppers him with small kisses at night to remind him of his love, to keep the fallen angel's own demons at bay. He teaches him how to enjoy pie, how to drive the Impala well past the speed limit on empty roads, how to get drunk and how to make love. 

All because he knows how easy it is to fall into destructive habits. He remembers so clearly the bleak future Zachariah showed him all those years ago, and despite his efforts he can still feel the relief from choosing to cut himself, of drowning his pain in the blessed numbness of alcohol. 

And he needs his Angel. More than anything in his entire life, he wants him. 

So when he finds the body of the man who was once an Angel of the Lord, hunched over on the toilet, tears of blood pouring down his sickly white skin, he knows he has lost the battle, and for a moment he can scarcely breathe. 

"Cas", he whispers, voice too loud in the echoing room. "Baby, can you hear me?" he asks with a quivering voice as he fumbles at the still figure before him. He rips his shirt off and wraps it tightly around his arms, lifting them high above to help stop the flow. 

To his utter relief Cas move his head slightly and groans quietly. Dean awards him with a dozen kisses on his forehead. 

"Hey", he says, seeking for eye contact. After some difficulty Cas' eyes manages to focus. Dean smiles ever so slightly. 

"I'm sorry", Cas mumbles, and he looks so ashamed, so small, so defeated, that it takes everything Dean has not to become a blubbering mess. 

"Hey baby, you've got nothing to be sorry about. We're gonna fix you up and you're gonna be okay." Dean kisses him hard on the mouth. "Just stay here. Can you hold your arms up like this for me?" Cas mumbles weakly in response. "I'll be back in a sec."

Dean lets go of him gently, ever so gently, and runs off to get the supplies needed to patch Cas up. 

When he returns his hands are shaking so badly he's afraid he's gonna drop everything. Silently he curses his brother for choosing to take this particular day off in the city center. 

He rinses the wound in antiseptic and wills his hands to still before stitching him up, ignoring the weak yelps escaping Cas' mouth as he drags the thread through the thin skin. He finishes off with bandaging the wounds, feeling somewhat better now that those grizzly cuts are hidden away from plain sight. 

He kisses Cas three times, at the corners of his lips and dead centre, before putting an arm behind his knee and another behind his back, carrying him to their bed, where he lays him down softly. He hurries to the kitchen to bring a pitcher of water and a glass back to him. 

"Here, drink this", he urges him kindly as he lifts the glass his mouth, holding his head up with his free hand. "You'll feel better. Promise." Cas doesn't need convincing. He gulps it down like his life depended on it – and in a way, it does.

When he's emptied nearly half the pitcher Dean lets him rest against his chest. He absentmindedly makes spirals in the mess of his dark hair. 

"I'm sorry", Cas says again, sounding a lot more coherent this time. 

"It's okay Cas. It's gonna be okay."

"I just wanted to feel..."

"Feel what?" Dean asks when he doesn't continue. 

"Something else."

"Cas..."

"A different kind of pain. Just like you did." Dean feels like he's been hit with a bucket of icy water for a second time in the span of an hour. 

"What?" he splutters. Cas doesn't seem at all troubled by what he just admitted. 

"Like you dealt in your youth. Before I met you. The scars I healed", he says as if he's talking about something as obvious as the craters on the moon. 

"How did you–?" Dean begins, but Cas interrupts him drowsily. 

"I remember every scar I healed on your mangled body. And I was curious about the ones on your thighs."

"Wait. Are you telling me you went back in time to find out?" Dean asks with a weak voice as something nags at him at the back of his head. Like he's missing something. 

"Not long after we had our first physical encounter I took a few trips into the past. At the time I was still strong enough for those kinds of things", he adds sadly. Dean instinctively puts his palm against Cas' cheek, stroking the soft skin under his eyes with his thumb, placing a kiss on his temple. "I had seen your soul, shining so bright and pure like nothing else, but I had also seen how broken it was, just like your body. And not just from the torments of Hell, but from something else. Naive as I was, I was curious. Always so nave", he mumbles under his breath, lost in thought for a second. Dean brings him back by leaning into his forehead and softly whispering his name. Cas' eyes flutter to meet his. "I saw your father leave you on the cold ground, saw as you wept over things I could not understand, still I saw the pain breaking through your soul like cracks in glass. I watched as you walked home with your head hanging low, feeling something close to anxious something would happen to you on your way. I followed until you were safe at your motel room." 

"Keeping an eye out for me even before we became friends, huh?" Dean chuckles quietly. 

"You were the Righteous Man. You were my responsibility." Cas looks up at him with a resemblance of those fierce, defiant eyes he fell in love with so long ago. 

Suddenly, something dawns on him. 

"Hey, I remember that night. I thought I heard wings." Slowly, panic rises in his chest. "Wait. So that's all you know about that night? I went home and cried because daddy was mean to me", he tries to make it sound like a joke, but fails miserably. Even if he hadn't, Cas knows him too well to know when he's being insincere. 

"You were upset because of what he found out about you." Cas smiles encouragingly at him. 

"You know?" Dean whispers. 

"Of course, Dean", and there is no judgment in his voice, only understanding. 

"But-"

"I know you down to your molecule, Dean. I have seen your soul stripped naked and butchered. I have been at your side for years. There is nothing I don't know about you, and nothing I don't love." 

Dean stares at him, gaping like a fish out of water, unable to form words. He feels wetness gathering at the corner of his eyes, leaking over his cheeks. And when Cas kisses them away he doesn't feel ashamed at all, only loved. 

"I love you, Cas", he says, and it feels so right he can't believe he doesn't say it more often. Cas kisses him deeply, breathing into his mouth, tasting him like he is the finest sorbet. 

They lay like that for a while, kissing, Dean's arms enveloping Cas in warmth as Cas' own lie bandaged and heavy at his sides. 

"I don't ever want you to leave me", Dean says quietly after their lips have separated, red and swollen, and they're both breathing deeply. Cas looks at him sadly. 

"I don't want to either. But I can't ignore the ache I feel inside... I need an outlet."

"There are much better outlets than slicing yourself open", Dean says, a bit too sharply. 

"And yet it was what helped you keep going all those years." There is nothing accusatory in his voice, but he can feel it anyway. 

"It was different. I didn't have anyone like you do."

"You had Sam."

"Sam was different. I couldn't talk to Sam about that stuff. I needed to protect him." 

"Maybe I want to protect you."

"Cas, you've done more for me than I ever deserve."

"I disagree. You deserve everything." And he looks so sincere that Dean can't dispute him. 

"I have everything." When Cas looks at him quizzically he adds, "You, idiot."

"I'm nothing." 

"Cas, I don't care about your wings. I don't care about your demon smiting mojo, I don't care about your healing touch."

"Then you're an idiot just as much as I." 

"Damn straight I am." Cas shakes his head with a small smile on his lips. 

"I went back later", Cas says after a moment of silence. "After I knew you better. After I began to care. I didn't dare show myself, but I made sure your wounds didn't kill you."

"When I left Sam at Stanford. I felt something. That was you", Dean says and in spite of himself, there's awe in his voice. Vaguely he recalls how he used to tell Cas off for being creepy about these things, but he never really meant it. Somehow it was endearing to think that an Angel of the Lord made time for a lowlife human such as himself. 

"I wanted to bring you comfort, but knew of no other way other than showing myself. Something tells me that would not have been met with appreciation." Cas smiles wryly. Dean laughs. Then his eyes meet the bandages on Cas' arms and he turns somber again. 

"Cas, I want you to promise me something", he says as he strokes Cas' locks. Cas lifts an eyebrow. "I want you to come to me whenever you feel like it's all too much for you. Talk to me. Whatever it is I'm doing, whatever mood I'm in, just tell me. I need to know."

"I'm not going to kill myself, Dean", Cas says and almost rolls his eyes.

"Still, I want to know. I can help. Or at least try." Cas looks like he's going to snark at him again, but decides against it. His features soften.

"Okay. I will. I promise." Dean grins at him and meets his plush and swollen lips with his own.

Perhaps the pain will never leave, the scars never heal, not completely, but they can live for each other, keep each others dark thoughts at bay, replace destruction with tenderness, hollow numbness with warm affection. 

Later, as they lie together with tangled limbs, stroking the other's back or hair as they are about to embrace the bliss of unconsciousness, Dean thinks to himself, breathing in the scent of soap and sweat and Cas, that it has all been worth it, all of it, to end up with the grumpy, snarky, broken angel at his side.

As the scrunched up lines of Cas' face relax, his body going heavy and solid, Dean pulls him just a bit closer to his chest, joining him in sleep, intoxicated on the fondness in his heart.


End file.
